


A Long Engagement

by Elsajeni



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Coming of Age, Community: hobbit_kink, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture, F/M, Female Fíli, Fili and Kili aren't related, Forbidden Love, Love Letters, Romance, Thorin's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a moment they're both quiet, studying the recruit. She's yellow-haired, not tall but sturdy, and by the look of her is not much older than the schoolboys — she wears her hair with only a single braid behind one temple, and her beard is little more than a scruff. Kíli has about made up his mind to bet against her; then the guard writing down her information laughs at something, and she whirls, slams a fist down on his desk, her other hand suddenly resting on the haft of her warhammer.</p><p>Gimli jumps back in his seat, eyes wide. "No bet," he whispers. "She's terrifying."</p><p>"She's <em>magnificent</em>," Kíli whispers back, his face alight, and keeps watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Schoolboy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=8810261#t8810261) on hobbit_kink:
>
>> Fili is a girl, and not actually Kili's sibling, but his bride-to-be.
>> 
>> The reason their names are so similar is because when a Dwarf lady becomes engaged, she takes on a new name. That's why Dis has such a different name from her brothers Thorin and Frerin.
>> 
>> So please, write sweet little prince Kili with the almost nonexistant stubble, being enamoured with his awesomely swaggery bride with the amazing dangly moustache.
> 
> Started out as a short little thing and, um, got a bit out of hand. I'll warn you before you start, this is going to be a slow-updating WIP for a while. Updates will be posted at the kinkmeme thread first. 

The first time he sees her, Kíli is a youth of thirty-five, sitting at his lessons along with a half-dozen other young dwarves. He is meant to be writing out, from memory, the chart of his own lineage ("With proper dates, please," Master Balin said firmly as he gave the assignment, "none of your 'quite a long time ago' nonsense this time"); instead he is staring out the schoolroom's small window, trying fruitlessly to remember whether Nain II's father was Oin or Gloin and, while he waits for that knowledge to materialize in his mind, idly watching the comings and goings at the guardhouse across the road.

It's busy today, as it has been lately; only a week ago, the formation of a new company was announced, and since then dozens of young dwarves have presented themselves as potential guardsmen. Kíli and his schoolmates have watched many of them through the window, exchanging comments and even bets (when they could get away with it) on which would last through training and which wouldn't, and as another young recruit swaggers up to the door, Kíli leans forward to nudge Gimli and whispers, "What do you think of this one?"

For a moment they're both quiet, studying the recruit. She's yellow-haired, not tall but sturdy, and by the look of her is not much older than the schoolboys — she wears her hair with only a single braid behind one temple, and her beard is little more than a scruff. Kíli has about made up his mind to bet against her; then the guard writing down her information laughs at something, and she whirls, slams a fist down on his desk, her other hand suddenly resting on the haft of her warhammer.

Gimli jumps back in his seat, eyes wide. "No bet," he whispers. "She's terrifying."

"She's _magnificent_ ," Kíli whispers back, his face alight, and keeps watching.

When Balin's apprentice Ori comes to collect their work, a few minutes later, he gives a heavy sigh at Kíli's efforts and fetches his master; Kíli fidgets through the scolding that follows, stealing glances out the window at every pause, and the moment he's released he's out the door and across the road.

He's seconds too late, fetching up at the recruiter's desk just in time to see the guardhouse door closing and a flash of yellow hair behind it.

"Damn," he says, with feeling, and mooches off home.

* * *

Whoever she is, she's clearly been accepted as a recruit, and begun the training program. She arrives at the guardhouse halfway through their schoolday the next morning (Kíli is actually focused on his work, for once, and wouldn't have noticed except that Gimli reaches back to hit him on the shoulder and point out the window), hair tied back and warhammer at her side, and hasn't come out by the time they leave; over the next week, it becomes clear that this is her new routine.

Kíli loiters outside the guardhouse after school those first few days, for as long as he can get away with; by the end of the week, he's worked out that the guards in training don't leave until well into the evening, and he redirects his attention from trying to catch her leaving, which clearly isn't working, to trying to convince Thorin and Dís to let _him_ join the guards, so that he can get to know her that way.

This plan is not a tremendous success, either.

"It's not fair," he whispers to Gimli the next day, when he should be labeling the peaks on a map of the Misty Mountains. "I'm old enough — look at Ori, he's only three years older than me and he's been apprenticed for _ages_. And I'm strong, and good with a sword—"

"You are not!" Gimli snorts; Kíli's eyes narrow, he lunges forward across the desk, and two minutes later they're both sitting on a bench outside the schoolroom, under Ori's supervision, waiting for their parents to come and get them.

Ori takes the opportunity to prove he's an adult by lecturing them, which inevitably leads him to the question, "But why do you even _want_ to join the guards, all of a sudden? You never said anything about it before."

"There's a _girl_ ," Gimli pipes up, grinning wickedly; Kíli shoots him a murderous look, but refrains from actually kicking him on the theory that they're in enough trouble already, and he takes that as license to go on, "One of the new recruits. She's got yellow hair and a nasty temper and Kíli _likes_ her."

"I don't even know her," Kíli snaps, and then goes red and shuts his mouth; Ori and Gimli both start laughing, and he's so torn between outrage and embarrassment that he's almost glad to see his mother round the corner.

Of course, that doesn't last long once she gets a grip on his ear.

* * *

Kíli is absolutely stunned when, three days later, just as the recruits are mustering across the road, Ori passes by his desk, glances out the window, and says in a whisper, "Is that her? With the warhammer? Good grief, I know her!"

"Who is she, then?" he demands at once, twisting in his seat and speaking a little louder than he means to, but Ori only smirks and walks away up the row of desks.

An hour later, they break in their studies for lunch; Kíli takes the opportunity to corner Ori and hiss at him, "Don't be a cock, who is she?"

"Well, _that's_ not the way to find out," Ori sniffs, stepping past him and taking a bite out of an apple. "You know, I had _planned_ to introduce you, but on second thought I don't suppose she cares to know a mannerless, bare-faced child."

Kíli opens his mouth, a heated response ready on his tongue; then he stops, actually thinks for a moment, and instead of shouting says sweetly, "Would you like to share my dessert, Ori? Mum sent enough cake for two."

Ori laughs, and says, "Well, at least you can learn. Talk to me after school and we'll see."

For the rest of the day, Kíli is a changed dwarf. He translates a long passage of poetry without complaining or inserting any jokes (which is a minor miracle in itself), works steadily if unsuccessfully at an arithmetic problem that involves the angles and forces of a trebuchet firing at a wall, and even, at one point, shushes Gimli's efforts to get him chatting. He gets a broad smile from Master Balin for his trouble, but Ori steadfastly ignores him.

By the end of the schoolday, he can't stand it any longer, and when Ori comes around to collect the students' work, Kíli catches him by the sleeve and whispers, "Ori. Come on. Have a heart."

The older dwarf rolls his eyes, but nods. "All right," he says in an undertone, bending over as if he's pointing out an error on Kíli's slate. "Day after tomorrow, before school, come over to my place. I'll take you to meet her."

Their schedule is such that 'before school' means 'at dawn,' but Kíli doesn't protest — it makes sense, since the guards seem to train from midday until late in the evening, and even if it weren't for that, there is _nothing_ he would complain about if it meant getting to meet his yellow-haired guardswoman.

Two days later, he presents himself at Ori's apartment at the crack of dawn, Gimli tagging along behind (despite Kíli's best efforts to get rid of him). "Where are we going?" he asks, a bit nervously, when Ori comes out to join them.

"The bakery," Ori says cheerfully. "Have you got a bit of money? We can pick up some breakfast."

Which is how Kíli ends up standing in front of a case of filled pastries, staring at the dwarf lass on the other side of the counter, dry-mouthed and _entirely_ unable to come up with anything to say.

Luckily, Ori takes pity on him and steps forward, calling out, "Fíannar! I'll have my usual, please, plus... what d'you want, Kíli?"

Kíli points randomly at the case, panicked, and says, "Two of those," and the girl — Fíannar — pulls them from the case and hands them over with a smile, and then, thank Mahal, Ori's leading them out of the shop and to a table on the sidewalk.

"You're a real ladykiller, you are," Gimli says with a grin, reaching for one of Kíli's pastries. "What are these, anyway? Caraway? I didn't think you liked caraway."

"I hate caraway," Kíli says glumly, and buries his face in his hands as his friends howl with laughter.

* * *

Kíli may have made an ass of himself, but he is a dwarf of the Line of Durin, and that means resolve and dedication (and, as his mother usually adds when Thorin says that sort of thing, pigheadedness); he will not give up after a single setback.

He goes back to the bakery the next week, without Ori this time, and then again a few days later; soon he's settled into a routine, buying breakfast for himself (and usually Gimli) there twice a week, and is working his way through sampling every flavor they offer. Fíannar is at the counter every morning, usually working alongside her mother, whose name he eventually learns is Morannar. She impresses him here nearly as much as she did at the guardhouse — she'll take four orders and four payments at once, serve up the pastries, make change without even stopping to think, and in all that she never seems to make a mistake and she never stops laughing and chatting with her customers.

Well, chatting with most of them, anyway. Kíli considers it a triumph that, after three weeks, he's able to smile naturally at her and return her "Good morning" when he comes in, rather than panicking and looking only at the pastry case; he can only aspire to the sort of easy friendliness the other customers have.

By the fifth week, he's determined that his favorites are sausage with cheese, hot pepper with cheese (which doesn't seem to be popular, but is _delicious_ ), and poppyseed, and he begins ordering one of each every time he comes in, because he likes the thought of having a recognizable "usual" like Ori did.

It's sometime in the eighth week (not that he's counting) that he comes in, Gimli trailing after him, to find only Morannar at the counter, looking rather more harried than usual. He's easier with her than he is with her daughter, and it only seems natural to ask, "Everything all right?"

"Oh — it's fine, we're short-staffed, is all," she says, and blows a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "Two bakers out; Fíannar's covering for one of them, but that leaves me covering for her, of course. Will you have your usual? Oh, hell, she hasn't brought out the — Fí! Aren't those pepper-and-cheese done yet?"

"Half a minute," Fíannar's voice calls back from the kitchen, and she's true to her word — only a few moments later she steps out, carrying a tray of steaming pastries, and slides them into the case. She pauses for a moment before going back in, eyes scanning the crowd, and then her gaze stops on Kíli and she grins and says, "Hallo, Kíli. I figured it was you — no one else'll order those this early in the morning."

He laughs, because it's the only response he can manage, and pays, and once they're out of the shop he punches Gimli in the shoulder and hisses into his ear, "She knows my name!"

"You're Thorin's heir, _literally everyone_ knows your name," Gimli answers, rolling his eyes, but he's smiling, too, and he returns the affectionate slug on the arm. "Now be a good cousin and hand over my breakfast."

* * *

He has only known her for a few months, has only recently dared an actual conversation with her, when the new guard-company finishes their training and word comes down of their assignment: they are to be deployed to the southern frontiers, to clear new territory there, that the dwarf-colonies may expand.

They are expected to be gone for five years.

Kíli mopes around the house a bit, when he first hears, but soon forces himself back to normal behavior — he hasn't said a word about Fíannar to his mother or his uncle, dreading their helpful advice nearly as much as he fears their disapproval, and he doesn't want them figuring it out now. So he puts on something approaching his usual cheer, and goes to school with his usual half-joking complaints, and begins visiting the bakery three times a week instead of twice.

He's there on the last morning before the guard-company leaves, earlier than his usual time, in hopes of avoiding the crowds and catching a moment's private conversation with Fíannar. When he walks in, she's alone in the shop, polishing the surface of the counter with a rag, and she looks up at him with a grin and says, "I can't believe it's really today."

"Is it?" he says, trying to sound as if he didn't know, as if he hasn't been counting the days, but his voice sounds flat in his own ears. He tries again. "Are you excited?"

"Of course," Fíannar answers, laughing, "of course I am! A bit nervous, though — I mean, training's one thing, but real fighting, real goblins..."

"And being away from home for so long," Kíli offers.

She nods, and the grin fades from her face, replaced by something thoughtful, almost sad; Kíli's eyes go to her hand where it rests on the countertop, and he fights the urge to take it in his, to say something colossally stupid like _Don't go._

"There is that," she says softly after a moment. "Home, and the shop, and all — I know Mum will miss me."

Kíli takes a deep breath, and dares, "So will your customers."

To his surprise, Fíannar smiles again at that, and reaches out to lay her hand on his shoulder for a moment. "That's sweet of you," she says. "I'll miss you too, Kíli."

He opens his mouth to reply, to tell her everything, and then the door opens with a jingle and a half-dozen miners coming off their shift crowd in, all shouting for meat pies and strong tea, and Fíannar jerks her hand back across the counter and turns to serve them.

She catches his eye once more before he goes, and gives him a smile and a little wave, and then he stumbles out the door in a daze, goes home instead of to school, and spends three days in bed claiming to be sick.

 _Five years_ , he can't stop thinking, and _I'll miss you too_ , and _Real fighting, real goblins_ — that last frightens him, and soon he finds he's added a new name to the list of blessings he asks of Mahal each night.

Five years. It may as well be forever.


	2. Apprentice

Kíli is over forty now, finally of age. He has quit his lessons — or, at least, he has quit the classroom; there are still lessons, but now they take the form of long conversations when Balin visits for dinner, and hours of drills with sword and axe under Dwalin's watchful eye, and (the best of all) instruction in smithing, for he has at last been taken as apprentice in his uncle's forge. He's more at home over the anvil than he ever was over a desk, and though he mainly does the unglamorous work of a striker, he feels the thrill of a dwarvish craftsman every time a customer exclaims over the quality of their goods.

He has grown like a weed, too, these last few years, and the fighting drills and forge-work have shaped his muscles; he is taller than his mother now (and closing in on Thorin), and strong enough to swing the heavy sledge over his head with ease, and when he looks in the mirror in the mornings, hair tied back out of his face and dressed for a day's hard work, he can almost see the young man he will be, rather than the boy he was.

It would help _tremendously_ , though, if his beard would get out of this damned awkward stage. Or at least if his mother would stop mistaking it for a smear of dirt and trying to wipe it off. As it stands, undwarvish though it would be, he almost thinks he'd be better off shaving it.

Today, he is not much needed in the forge; he has the time to stand around and rub speculatively at his chin, trying to judge whether his scruff is any longer than it was yesterday, and that's what he's doing when the bell in their little front room rings and Thorin shouts for him to go and deal with it.

"All right," he says cheerfully — he likes dealing with customers, really, likes the challenge of getting a good description of what they want and _loves_ seeing their smiles when he hands over a finished order — and steps out behind the counter.

And freezes.

It can't really be her — of course she's not the only yellow-haired dwarf woman in the city, nor even the only one who might wear a guardswoman's uniform. But that fine, strong build, and that classically beautiful dwarven nose, and the play of a good-humored little smile about her lips — and then she turns and he can see the haft of her warhammer, and it dawns on him that this is the fifth summer since the guard-company went south, and he lets out a disbelieving laugh and says, " _Fíannar_?"

She turns, and _stares_. "Kíli! I thought — of course, this is your uncle's shop, I should have known. You're apprenticed here, now?"

He nods and steps closer, studying her. She, too, is a bit taller than she was five years ago; her hair is longer, her mustache growing in thick and long, and she wears two new braids at her temples, both done in a pattern he recognizes as meaning 'valor in battle'. Still, though, there's that smile, and the snap of pride in her grey eyes — "You've hardly changed," he says, and means it.

"Can't say the same for you," she answers with a grin, looking him up and down.

Kíli feels himself flush scarlet; to cover, he quickly bends down below the counter, reaching for order form, pen, and inkwell. By the time he straightens up again and lays them out on the counter, he's able to say quite calmly, "You came in to place an order, didn't you? Weapons, or armor, or something else?"

"Weapons," Fíannar says promptly. "Two short swords, heavy blades, balanced to wield as a pair. I've got five years' pay to spend; I reckon I ought to use it on something I'll enjoy."

Kíli grins at that. "Of course," he says, and jots down the basics of the order before asking, "And any special details? Hooks, or spikes, or etching..."

"I don't want to be _too_ specific; I know I'll get good blades from you no matter what," Fíannar says, and he nods to acknowledge the compliment, even if it's not really his work she's praising. "But I do have some ideas..."

She has quite a few ideas, as it turns out, from the sculpting on the hilts to the shape of the fullers, and it's all he can do to keep up with what she's saying as he writes them down, sketches little diagrams. He's putting the finishing touches on a final drawing when she leans over the counter and says in a low voice, "Forge-work certainly seems to agree with you," and when he looks up, her gaze is lingering on the curve of his triceps.

He fumbles his pen, and knocks over the damned inkwell trying to catch it, and has to start the whole order again from scratch.

* * *

The swords are finished, and they're beautiful. (They look very like Kíli's original sketch, actually, as their finished products often do; he's good at melding a customer's vision with what's actually possible, and takes pride in it.) When he hands them across the counter to Fíannar, she draws in a long breath, and her eyes shine. "They're _wonderful_ ," she says, lifting one carefully, testing the weight and balance of it in her hand. "I can't believe they're really mine. I've never held a finer weapon."

"Uncle will be pleased to hear that," Kíli says with a grin. "I mean, I am, too, though I can't take much credit for them — he let me wrap the leather on the hilts, and that's about it."

Fíannar makes a show of examining the hilts. "They are very nicely wrapped, I must say."

Kíli rolls his eyes, though he can't help a little flush of pride, and says, "Don't make fun."

"Oh, never," she says, eyes dancing; then Thorin bellows for him to bring the sledgehammer, and Fíannar quickly gathers her swords up and says, "You'd better go."

He starts visiting the bakery again, twice a week, buying a lunch to bring with him to the forge; most days he still doesn't get much beyond a "good morning" out of Fíannar, but at least now it's only because she's busy, not because all he can do is stammer and stare at his feet and run away. But some days they do get a chance to talk, trading stories of their lives these last few years — those are the mornings Kíli turns up late to work, out of breath from running halfway across town, because the warmth that kindles in his chest when she talks to him, when she _smiles_ at him, is irresistible and he can't seem to pull himself away.

After a few weeks of this, Fíannar starts turning up at the forge sometimes on days when he doesn't make it to the bakery, waving hello as she passes or stopping for a chat if Kíli isn't busy. (Thorin doesn't seem to notice, which is a relief. Dwalin, on the other hand, takes to _waggling his eyebrows_ at Kíli every time he sees the two of them talking; Kíli can't decide whether it's hilarious or terrifying.) Before long they are seeing each other nearly every day, even if only in passing, and at the end of every work-week, they meet, collect a few friends, and spend a raucous evening in the tavern.

"Did I tell you," Kíli says, slightly unfocused, on one of these nights, "did I tell you Thorin's letting me make a blade by myself? 'S the first time."

"You've mentioned it once or twice," Fíannar laughs. "Or three times. Or a dozen."

"Oh, let him alone, it hasn't been more than five," Gimli puts in from Kíli's other side. "What d'you reckon you'll make, Kí? Hunting knife, maybe?"

Kíli pauses, thinking. "A throwing knife," he declares after a moment. "More useful."

"How is that more useful?" That's Fíannar's friend, Haki, a guardsman of her company and, tonight, the most sober of the four of them. "Can you even throw a knife? And expect to hit anything with it, I mean? Because I can't."

"Me neither," Gimli offers. "Hopeless aim."

Fíannar grins and says, "We know, we've seen you play darts. Kíli, though — Kíli, you're good at darts. Good aim. Even if you can't throw a knife now, I reckon you'd learn quick."

"No," Kíli says, frowning. "No one to teach me. I don't know anyone who can throw a knife."

" 'Course you do!" Haki cries. "Fí, haven't you told him about your braids? This one here—" He reaches up, tugs the braid behind Fíannar's right ear, ignores her muttered _Haki, don't_. "She put a knife right through a wolf's throat from ten paces!"

"It's settled, then," Kíli says, suddenly all cheer again. "I'll make the knife, and I'll give it to you, and you can teach me."

Fíannar reddens; behind her, so does Haki, and Gimli coughs and says loudly, "Good grief, look at the time, we'd better be off."

"What?" Kili demands, looking at their faces; then it dawns on him what he's just offered — his _torvith_ , his first-crafting, every dwarf's first courtship gift — and he goes pale and says, "I didn't — that's not what I meant. Not that I wouldn't! I mean, if you — I mean — oh hell."

"It's all right, it's the ale," Fíannar says quickly, and Kíli, seizing on the offered excuse, nods emphatically and says, "Gimli's right, it's late, let's go."

 _I would, though_ , he thinks later, lying in his bed, and there's a sudden certainty, a _rightness_ to the thought, that's almost frightening; as he drifts to sleep, he finds himself wondering whether, if he offered it to her sober, she'd accept it.

* * *

He doesn't make a throwing knife, in the end; he suggests it, and Thorin rolls his eyes and says, "How about something more practical?" and after some discussion they agree on a simple hunting knife, short-bladed and slim-handled — easy to make, even for an inexperienced smith, and easy, once it's finished, to conceal in a boot or tuck into a belt.

"Can I make a pair of them?" Kíli asks, thinking of the heavy copper-and-malachite ring his mother wears, his father's _torvith_ , and the matching one that hangs on a chain around her neck. His slip at the tavern was embarrassing, but it did serve to remind him that, with any luck, he will someday offer this knife as a gift, and he rather likes the idea of giving a courting-gift and keeping its mate, of visibly marking himself and — _and whoever it is_ , he tells himself sternly, _don't get ahead of yourself_ — as a pair.

Thorin looks at him sharply, and Kíli wonders how much of his thoughts his uncle guesses, braces himself for an onslaught of questions he doesn't want to answer. After a moment, though, Thorin just shrugs and says, "Why not? One to keep until it is needed, and one to use yourself, in the meantime."

It takes three failed attempts, and several nights moaning to his friends at the tavern (they are mostly sympathetic, except for Ori, who scoffs and says, "Just you try having Balin as your master — I must have spent _months_ copying out the same poem every day, and every time he'd find one damned crooked letter and make me start again"), before he produces a blade that meets with Thorin's approval. It's far from perfect — there's a slight blemish in the steel near the knife's tip, and he's somehow managed to get the carved-horn handle a bit crooked — but it's good enough that he'd use it himself, good enough that they could sell it, if it weren't fated for better things.

Thorin studies it closely, even takes it outside to get a better light; he points out the flaws, of course, but then he nods and tells Kíli, "This is not bad work," which is high praise coming from him, and then hands him his week's pay and sends him off several hours early, which is so unheard of that Kíli briefly wonders whether he should fetch a healer.

Instead, he takes the blade and the pocketful of coin to the market, finds a woodworker's stall, and commissions a display stand for the knife, something to keep on his mantelpiece until the time is right to take it down and make a gift of it. Then he wanders through the stalls for a while, killing time until his friends are likely to be off work with a bit of idle browsing.

It's _meant_ to be idle browsing, anyway, until he spots the bead-seller. It's not even a proper stall, really, just a table dragged out from someone's dining room and spread with a cloth, but there are dozens of beads and clasps, brass, silver, and gold, arranged in pairs or groups, and for some reason one of the designs catches his eye — a pair of barrel-shaped silver beads, engraved with interlocking chevrons, just the right size to hold a long, thin braid.

He walks past the stall twice, circles around and comes back, and when he finds himself standing in front of the table a third time, he buys the beads and slips them into his pocket, thinking vaguely that perhaps he'll start wearing braids like Thorin's.

By then it's nearly the end of the workday, so it's off to his Auntie Gloin's workshop to see if Gimli's free to leave work (and, all right, _possibly_ to lord it over him a bit; he hasn't made a _torvith_ yet, and at this rate it'll be years before Gloin admits he's ready), and, when it turns out he isn't, to the bakery to pester Fíannar until she laughs and says, "Oh, all _right_ , I suppose I can leave a bit early. But where shall we go?"

It occurs to Kíli that this will be the first time they've gone out after work by themselves, without any of their friends along; that seems important, and he bites off the instinctive suggestion of 'the tavern, like always' in favor of, "Why don't we take a walk outside of town?"

Fíannar looks surprised, but says, "That sounds lovely," and a few minutes later the two of them are strolling through the town's eastern gate and off the road, into the grassy hills, Kíli carrying a basket hastily packed with a half-dozen pastries and two sealed, well-insulated flasks of tea. (Fíannar is not unburdened, either, having insisted on bringing her swords on the grounds that "You never know about wolves"; Kíli is pretty certain that you _can_ , in fact, know some things about wolves, such as that they are very unlikely to attack two full-grown dwarves within sight of the town walls in broad daylight, but she seems so happy with the swords strapped to her back that he's not inclined to argue.)

They walk in companionable silence for a while; Kíli watches a hawk wheel overhead, keeps an eye on the grey clouds building in the north, but doesn't speak until Fíannar says, "So. Finished your knife, have you? Still want me to teach you to throw it?"

"It's not really made for throwing," he answers, and draws it from his belt to show it off. "I mean, I suppose nearly any knife _can_ be thrown, but you want a better balance for that sort of thing. This one's really just an everyday knife." Then he casts her a sidelong glance and asks, "Was it true what Haki said, about the wolf?"

Fíannar shrugs. "He made it sound more impressive than it was. The beast had Tormi pinned down — a friend of mine, I don't think you've met her — and she'd dropped her axe. I was just trying to buy her a bit of time to pick it up, really. It was a lucky shot."

"If you say so," Kíli says with a grin. "It still sounds very heroic and impressive to me, though."

"It wasn't," Fíannar says firmly, and there's a hint of a flush to her cheeks. "I was badly frightened, and it was all I could think of to do, and through luck and Mahal's favor it actually worked. Now can't we talk about something else?"

"Of course," Kíli says. "I'm sorry. Er... it's lovely weather, isn't it?"

Naturally, it's at that moment that there's a crack of thunder and the gathering clouds suddenly open; over the sound of the rain he can hear Fíannar's yelp of surprise, and then her laughter. "Follow me," she shouts, and catches him by the hand, and starts running.

They fetch up, a few moments later, in the foothills just below the town wall; Kíli can't figure out why they've run _this_ way until Fíannar slips through a narrow crevice in the rock, tugging him after her into what turns out to be a cozy, low-ceilinged cave. She drops his hand to wring out her dripping hair, and laughs again, and says, "Well. We may as well have that picnic here, don't you think?"

* * *

Later, as they're finishing the last of the pastries, Kíli glances over at Fíannar to find her brushing crumbs out of her long mustache; she catches him looking and says, half joking and half actually cross, "It's a mess, isn't it? I'm thinking of cutting it."

"Oh, don't," he protests, because it really is a lovely mustache; then, impulsively, he pulls the beads out of his pocket and adds, "You can't, I got you these for it."

Fíannar stares at the beads, shining against Kíli's palm. "I don't wear beads, though," she says after a moment. "I can't ever seem to get one on — I'm clumsy with hair."

"Well, I'm not," Kíli says, and slides closer to her, boldly takes up the lock that dangles over the right corner of her lips. "I'll put them on for you."

"All right," she says quietly, and closes her eyes as he separates the strands of hair and begins to work.

Kíli's just finishing the second braid, pinching the end tight and sliding on the silver bead, when Fíannar takes a deep breath, opens her eyes again, and turns her face slightly to the side, just enough that her lips brush across the backs of his knuckles. It surprises him, but not enough that he drops the bead or the braid; instead, he finishes his work, gently lets the braid go to dangle freely against Fíannar's chin, and then turns his hand to run his fingertips over her cheek, thumb resting at the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, good heavens," Fíannar says, very softly — he can feel her lips move against the pad of his thumb, and it sends a shiver through him — and then she leans forward, wraps a hand around the back of his neck, and kisses him, hard and fierce and bruising, on the mouth.

It's not a long kiss, but all the same, Kíli is breathless and trembling by the time Fíannar pulls away; he can't seem to think straight, which perhaps explains why the first thing out of his mouth is, "You can't be serious."

Thankfully, Fíannar's response is only to laugh and lean into him again, resting her head on his shoulder. "I am _terribly_ serious," she says, and though he can't see her face, he can hear the smile in her voice. "I've wanted to do that since I first saw you in the forge, when I'd just gotten back."

"I win," Kíli says, putting an arm around her shoulders and grinning. "I've wanted to do it since I was sitting in school and I saw you at the guardhouse across the way, joining up."

Fíannar twists in his arms, peers out the cave's opening; when she turns back, she's grinning, too, and she reports, "It's still pouring. I'm afraid we're stuck here for a while."

"Oh, _what_ a pity," Kíli breathes, and leans down to kiss her again.

* * *

After that day, it's as if a dam has broken; they find opportunities to be alone together, steal kisses whenever they're not being watched, and even when their friends are with them, they are nearly always touching — an arm slung over a shoulder, a teasing tug on a braid, once even a daring hand sliding along a thigh under the table. (Fíannar's hand, of course — Kíli wouldn't have the nerve — and it ends in Kíli choking on a mouthful of ale and needing a long minute to catch his breath, which probably explains why she doesn't try it more than once.)

Kíli is still careful, though, not to let Thorin or anyone who might carry a tale back to him catch them together. That limits them substantially — no more-than-friendly contact too near the forge, or Kíli's home, or Ori's or Gimli's workplaces, or really anywhere too public — and between that secrecy and both of their increasing responsibilities (Fíannar is still working afternoon patrol shifts and has recently been promoted to sergeant, and Kíli, since finishing his _torvith_ , is expected to do more around the forge), it soon seems that they're spending _less_ time together than before. They are both growing frustrated with the situation, and irritable with each other, when beyond all expectations Dwalin comes to their rescue.

It's a late summer afternoon — miserably hot outside, and even worse in the forge — and even Thorin is flagging. "Perhaps," he pants, leaning against the wall and mopping the back of his neck with a kerchief, "it's time we call it a day."

"Or take a break, at least," Dwalin agrees; he drops his hammer, picks up the nearby water-bucket, and unceremoniously empties it over his head, then holds the empty bucket out to Kíli. "Go and fill this up, will you? I need to have a talk with your uncle."

Kíli freezes — has he been careless? What has Dwalin seen, or guessed at? But after a moment, Dwalin rolls his eyes and says, "Good grief, it's just to do with your training. Now hurry up with that bucket," and Kíli takes it and goes.

He does hurry, though there's a line for the water-pump, and when he arrives back at the forge, he can hear Thorin within saying, "—suppose you're right. Take him out this afternoon, then, and arrange it."

"Arrange what?" Kíli asks, stepping in and setting the water-bucket down. "Are we going somewhere?"

"Only to the training ground," Dwalin answers, "and not only the two of us. If you ever meet real battle, you won't be alone; it's time you learned some proper group tactics, for fighting with allies at your side."

"Oh." Kíli frowns. "Who else is coming, then?"

Dwalin shrugs. "Well, young Gimli, certainly; we'll go and fetch him first. And I thought I'd see if Balin would let his apprentice out to join us — wee scrawny thing, but stronger than he looks, and a good eye with that slingshot of his. And any other friends of yours you can round up, I suppose." Then, as if it's an afterthought, he adds, "What about that guardswoman I've seen going about with you lads? I reckon she could show you a trick or two. You go fetch her, I'll round up Gimli and Ori, and we'll meet up at the training ground in a few minutes." And, turning to look at Kíli so Thorin can't see his face, he actually _winks_.

Kíli stares for a moment, trying to work out exactly what Dwalin's up to; then Dwalin gives him a raised eyebrow and a little shooing gesture, and he decides he can worry about the details later, says, "Good idea," and rushes off to the bakery to recruit Fíannar before the adults can come to their senses.

* * *

It turns out that 'learning group tactics' mostly means 'sparring with your friends,' and is _tremendous_ fun. Kíli's good at it, too — he and Gimli do well fighting back-to-back, and he quickly learns to take advantage of Ori's covering fire to get in close to an opponent. He finds he's at his best, though, when he has Fíannar as an ally; whether it's just the two of them against the others or all four of the young dwarves against a well-armored Dwalin, they work together like two halves of a single machine, and they make short work of their opponents.

Dwalin seems to notice, of course, but he doesn't comment on it — only watches, and offers rare compliments and more frequent corrections, and sometimes looks at the pair of them as if he's looking _through_ them, seeing something else entirely.

It's a four-against-four battle, some weeks into this new sort of training, that eventually makes him speak up. Dwalin is heavily armored, as usual, and lugging in front of him a wooden cutout made to look like a great orc twice Kíli's height; he has pressed into service several of the old warriors who hang around the training grounds, too, and equipped them with similar cutouts, so that the young dwarves have an orc apiece to deal with. They take down two of them quickly, the first falling to a half-dozen quick slashes from Fíannar's twin swords and the second, distracted by a peppering of slingshot bullets, hewn down by Gimli's axe (and that old soldier, it turns out, has a theatrical streak; the orc's 'death' is long and drawn-out and involves a great many colorful curses). The remaining orcs, though, played by Dwalin and an old friend of his, are cannier, and they lay a trap — the old friend keeping their attention fixed on him with constant feints, and Dwalin circling around behind, almost unnoticed, closing in on where Ori stands by himself with his slingshot at the ready.

Just as Dwalin lunges at Ori from the back, wooden sword held high, Kíli turns and spots the danger. He shouts and throws himself forward, somersaults past Fíannar with one hand extended toward her, and comes up with one of the small throwing-axes she carries; an instant later it's buried through the forehead of the wooden orc cutout, its haft juddering with the sudden stop, and Dwalin heaves a sigh and says, "Well, I'm dead."

Between the four of them, they make short work of the final orc, and as soon as the battle's over they fling themselves down on the ground, panting, and begin a mostly-friendly argument over whose fighting was the most impressive.

"I did get two kills," Gimli points out, retrieving his axe from where it's embedded in the wood of the final orc. "I feel I deserve some credit for that."

"Ori gets half-credit for the first one," Kíli says firmly — that's their usual rule, and it's only fair, since Ori hardly ever gets a kill entirely on his own. "And Fí took the second one's arm off, before you got him. That counts for at least a quarter."

Gimli does some calculating on his fingers, then announces, "That still gives me one and a quarter! Which is more than you had, dear cousin."

"I say rescuing me counts for at _least_ double," Ori puts in, leaning back on his elbows. "And his was impressive, too. I couldn't really see, Kíli, where'd you get that throwing axe? Wasn't it one of Fíannar's?"

"I saw it," Dwalin puts in suddenly, striding back over from where he's been joking with his fellow 'orcs'. "The lass actually _handed_ it to him on his way past. I'd love to know how the two of you managed that — something you've practiced?"

"No, I just figured I could throw faster than I could run," Kíli says with a shrug; from beside him, Fíannar puts in, "I knew what he was after when he dropped down to roll, but I didn't think he'd be able to get it out of the holster from that angle, so I tried to help."

Dwalin looks back and forth between the two of them, raises his eyebrows. "Honestly? You hadn't tried it before? That should never have worked."

"I suppose it was luck," Kíli offers.

"Perhaps," Dwalin answers, but he sounds doubtful. "I'll say this, though: you don't see that kind of teamwork often, and normally it's between two warriors who have stood at each other's sides for years. Whatever it is between you, you're lucky to have it."

Then he stomps off again, back to the crowd of old soldiers, and Kíli turns to Fíannar with a grin.

"Hear that?" he says, low and soft. "We're lucky to have one another."

"I already knew that," she laughs, and reaches out to tug at his hair, pulls him in for a quick kiss; that provokes a round of eye-rolling and theatrical gagging from Gimli and Ori, and Kíli makes a rude gesture at them over his shoulder as he stands up.

"I'll go fetch your axe back," he offers, and turns to do just that, and freezes in his tracks.

Standing at the gate of the training ground, looking nearly as shocked at what he's just seen as Kíli feels to see him, is Thorin Oakenshield.

* * *

"Uncle!" Kíli manages after a long moment, though it comes out rather more panicky than the cheerful, breezy tone he was shooting for. "I... er. Hello!"

He stops there, because, honestly, what else is there to say? But at least his fumbling has drawn the attention of the others; when he turns to glance behind him, his friends are scrambling to their feet, and Dwalin is hurrying back toward them, alarm on his face. It's Gimli who comes to his rescue first, though, pushing in front of him and calling out, "Uncle Thorin! Come to watch us fight, have you? I hope you saw me chop that last orc to splinters!"

"I saw a great deal," Thorin says, and his voice is calm, but his face is like a storm-cloud. "Come along, Kíli, it's time you were home."

Kíli doesn't dare protest. He risks another glance back, meets Fíannar's eyes just long enough to catch her mouthing _I'm sorry_ at him, and then Thorin catches him by the elbow and hauls him through the gates and down the road.

As soon as they're back in the house, Thorin rounds on Kíli, demands, "Explain yourself."

"What's to explain?" Kíli says, sounding as honestly confused as he can manage; he's had a bit of time to think while being dragged through town, and he's settled on Baffled Innocence as the tactic most likely to succeed here. "You know my friend Fíannar; she comes round the forge all the time."

"Your _friend_ ," Thorin repeats, his tone incredulous. "And your cousins have kept your secret, even _Dwalin_ has helped you to hide from me — how many of my kin have conspired against me?"

Kíli rolls his eyes. "It's not a _conspiracy_ , Uncle. I don't see why you're making such a fuss—"

Thorin gives an irritated growl and stomps his foot, and at the noise, Dís puts her head in from the kitchen and calls out, "Thorin! What have I told you about those boots on my nice floors?"

"Are you a party to this?" Thorin bellows back to her, though he does sit down and begin unbuckling his boots. "Hiding my heir's dalliances—"

"It's only the one!" Kíli interrupts — so much for Baffled Innocence — and then goes red and adds, "And I'm not _dallying_ , either. I intend to court her."

There's a clatter in the kitchen, as if Dís has dropped a pan, and she appears in the doorway again, stares at both of them; Thorin returns her gaze, sighs, and stands back up. "Kíli," he says, quieter but still grave, "I can't approve of this. You know you have responsibilities; you know your hand is not yours to pledge."

"Not without your blessing," Kíli says; he can hear an edge of panic creeping into his own voice, he knows he's rambling mostly to prevent Thorin from saying any more, but he still goes on, "Let me ask you for it, then. Should I do it formally? I don't know exactly what to say, I just want—"

"It doesn't matter," Thorin cuts him off. "However you ask, I won't give it to you, not for such an unsuitable match. It stops here, Kíli. You must not see her again."

Kíli's jaw drops, and there's a long silence. "You're not serious," he says eventually. " _Unsuitable_? She's twice the dwarf I am; you ought to be glad she'll even _have_ me!"

"Regardless, she is not a fit match."

"But I'm in _love_ ," Kíli says desperately — surely his uncle will come to his senses, if he can just make him understand. "Can't you see that? Don't you know how lucky I am, to have that? I won't give her up just because you've lost your mind!"

"Very well," Thorin says with a sigh. "I didn't want to do it this way, but it seems I must. Kíli, you will finish out your apprenticeship with Dwalin in the traveling forge, in the towns of Men to the East. I shall make arrangements with him tonight, and the two of you will leave tomorrow."

" _Thorin_ ," Dís exclaims, at the same moment that Kíli shouts, "You can't do this!"

"I don't expect you to understand—"

"I _do_ understand," he snaps, feeling something give way within him, the white-hot rage breaking its chains and running free with his tongue. "Do you think me a fool? Do you think I can't remember what I've heard a thousand times? 'Oh, Kíli, someday you shall be King' — aye, King of Nothing and Nowhere, and the Maker forbid that, the day I ascend that throne that _does not exist_ , I make such a lowly dwarf as a baker's daughter the _Queen_ of Nothing and Nowhere!"

Thorin slaps him. Actually _slaps_ him, and Kíli's tirade cuts off at once; the fresh insults that were on the tip of his tongue a moment ago have vanished and he can only stare at his uncle in open-mouthed disbelief, his chest heaving with fury.

"You leave at dawn," Thorin says, and his voice is a growl. "There is nothing more to discuss. Go to your room."

Kíli doesn't move, _can't_ move, until Dís steps forward to take him by the arm; then he jerks away from her and turns on his heel, storms up the stairs to his bedroom, ignoring his mother's voice behind him and slamming the door.

She knocks on it at once, pushes it open an inch or two when he doesn't respond. "Kíli—"

"Leave me alone," he says, and his voice trembles, breaks; he hears a sigh behind him, and the creak of the floorboards as Dís steps the rest of the way into the room.

"He only means to do what's best for — well, for all of us," she says softly, laying a hand on Kíli's shoulder; he tenses, but doesn't pull away, and she goes on, "He asks nothing of you that he hasn't given of himself. He made his choice, long ago, to put our people before anything else."

"Would you have let him do this to you?" Kíli demands, still not looking at her. "If he hadn't approved of Da, would you have just... gone along, and not argued, and said, 'Well, he means it for the best'?"

His mother's grip tightens on his shoulder for a moment. Then she steps back, and lets go of him; there's a rustling of cloth, and he turns in time to see her draw out a hidden knife from the waistband of her skirt, hold it out to him. "You'll want this," she says.

It's his crooked-handled hunting knife, his _torvith_ , pulled down from its place on the mantelpiece.

Kíli stares at the blade for a long moment before reaching out to take it, tucking it into his own belt. "You're letting me—"

"I'm offering you the choice," Dís cuts him off. "It's yours to make, not Thorin's. Do what you will with it." Then she's gone, shutting the bedroom door again behind her, and he can hear her footsteps fade away down the stairs.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and another, and thinks, _I know what I choose_ , and climbs out of the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A note on dwarf aging:** someone asked over on the kinkmeme thread about how old, in human-equivalent terms, the young dwarves are intended to be, since I appear to be writing 35-year-old Kíli as a teenager even though the most common conversion floating around pegs him as roughly 18 at the time of the quest. The thing is, that conversion is based on assuming that there's a strictly linear relationship between dwarf ages and human ages — that, if dwarves live to ~250 and humans live to ~60, then [Dwarf Age] / 250 * 60 = [Equivalent Human Age] — which doesn't make sense to me. I think it's more likely that dwarves age differently from humans. Instead, I'm basing my dwarf-aging ideas on a reference I saw somewhere else (and then, um, lost) that suggested dwarves are considered striplings, barely old enough to work, around age 30, and then fully mature around age 40. With that in mind, I would put the human-equivalent ages of the young dwarves at the start of the story at: Kíli (35), 15 or 16, not very mature for his age; Gimli, a bit younger, maybe 14; Ori (38) and Fíannar (40), both around 18 or 19, very different maturity levels.
> 
> (Of course, all that said, I'm also playing seriously fast and loose with the timeline and with everyone's relative ages, in an attempt to find a compromise between book-canon, movie-canon, and my own need for this story to not actually cover a 45-year timespan because oh my God it's going to be long enough already. Kíli will definitely be younger than 77 when he embarks on the Quest for Erebor.)
> 
>  **A note on the dwarven tradition of the _torvith_ :** per the giant neo-Khuzdul dictionary found [here](http://www.scribd.com/doc/98387422/Khuzdul-Dictionary-E-K-v01-JUN12) (and many thanks to lilithiumwords on LJ for the link), _torvith_ means "craft that is young". I'm using it to mean, basically, "the first successful example of a dwarf's chosen craft that he/she makes entirely by his/her own hand" — used in this way, it's presumably a contraction of a longer Khuzdul phrase, but the long form is unfortunately not recorded (by which I mean, I can't be bothered making it up). Making a gift of one's _torvith_ is a traditional part of a dwarven courtship, essentially the step that takes it from "we're having fun flirting" to "we're serious about this," and it's important enough that every dwarf has one, even those whose chosen career isn't really a making-physical-objects sort of craft. Ori's, for example, is a beautifully scripted and illuminated copy of an ancient dwarven poem, as suggested in his complaint about persnickety old Master Balin; a miner's might be the first valuable or unusual stone they found without anyone telling them where to dig; and so on.


	3. Journeyman (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... So, when I said this would be slow to update, I didn't actually think it would be _this_ slow. My sincere apologies.
> 
> With many thanks to [leaper182](http://archiveofourown.org/users/leaper182/pseuds/leaper182) for her help as a beta, writer's-block breaker, and general partner-in-dwarf-related-madness.

It's a bit of a scramble down to the street, and halfway down Kíli realizes Thorin is looking out the kitchen window and has to rethink his route; even so, he's pretty certain he's visible from inside, and when he hits the ground he takes off at a sprint, expecting at any moment to hear Thorin's heavy boots behind him, to feel himself caught by the collar and dragged back home. But there are no shouts, no one trying to grab him, and when he finally stumbles to a halt, gulping air, he is safely on the stairs outside Fíannar's apartment.

It's her mother, Morannar, who opens the door, in answer to his insistent pounding. She gasps at the sight of him, and says, "Kíli! Durin's beard, what on earth is the matter?" and it occurs to him what a mess he must look — out of breath, his hair in wild disarray, the mark of a slap still standing out red on his cheek.

He takes a step back, holds up his hands, palms out. "I'm sorry," he pants. "I must look like a madman. I just — please, is Fíannar here?"

"She came home upset about something," Morannar says, looking at him sharply. "I figured it had to do with you; she's always on about you lately. I don't suppose you'd care to explain?"

"My uncle didn't know we were seeing each other and now he's found out and we've just had a flaming row over it," Kíli blurts out; it's more than he actually meant to admit, and he's faintly horrified to hear himself, but Morannar's suspicious look does soften a bit, which is a relief.

"Well," she says, and her voice is gentler, too. "Wait here a moment, will you? I'll see if she's in." She disappears back inside, shutting the door, and Kíli is left alone on the darkened porch.

He takes a deep breath and tries to compose himself, first tugging at the hem of his tunic, then bringing his fingers up to comb through his hair — it ought to be freshly washed and braided for this conversation, really, but under the circumstances he'll settle for 'not a rat's nest.' He's only just finished his hurried detangling and dropped his hands back to his belt, fiddling with the hilt of his knife, when the door opens again and Fíannar steps out.

"Kíli, I'm sorry," she says at once, reaching for his hand. "I should have seen him there — I just wasn't thinking—" Then, as he shifts toward her, she gets a better look at his face and gasps. "Kíli, you're bleeding!"

"Am I?" he says, startled, and raises one hand to prod at his own cheek. Sure enough, his fingers come away smeared with blood, and a moment's exploration finds the source of it, a shallow, smarting cut across his cheekbone. He lets out a little huff of a laugh and says, "One of Thorin's rings, I suppose. He does wear some heavy ones."

Fíannar catches his hand in hers again, takes a step closer. "Was he that angry?"

"I'm forbidden to see you," Kíli says, voice shaking. "He's sending me away."

Fíannar's eyes widen for an instant, and then she sets her jaw and suddenly she's all outraged warrior, snapping, " _What_? That's — where is he? King or no, I'll—"

She cuts off there, seemingly at a loss for words, and Kíli shakes his head. "You'll _what_?" he asks, his voice low and frustrated. "Fí, honestly. You won't make him see sense; he'll just be more convinced you're not _suitable_ —" he can hear the bitter little sneer in his voice, repeating his uncle's words— "whatever that means."

"Well, what am I to do, then?" Fíannar demands. "I won't just let him take you away, Kíli. I won't stand for it!"

"No," Kíli says, and if he had any doubts they're gone now. "No, I won't either. I'll run away." Fíannar gives a little snort of laughter at that, as if disbelieving, and Kíli insists, "I will," draws the knife from his belt and holds it out to her, hilt-first. "I mean it. Fí, I — I made this for you, I meant it for you all along, you have to know that. Please take it. Please say you'll come with me."

Fíannar stares at the knife for a long moment, then back up at his face. "Kíli," she says, and her voice is unsteady. "Kíli, do you really mean—"

"I love you," he says, fast and desperate, and Fíannar closes her eyes, lets out a long breath and takes the knife from his hand.

Then she opens her eyes again, fixes her gaze on him and says firmly, "You're not running away, is that clear? You're not throwing away your birthright over me. That's my condition."

Kíli nods, dumbfounded, and suddenly Fíannar grins and throws her arms around him. "Good," she says into his ear. "Then I accept your courtship, Kíli son of Dís, and we'll worry about the details later. Now you'd better come inside and speak to my mum."

"Oh no," Kíli says, and goes pale, and Fíannar laughs at him and pulls him into the apartment, shouting for her mother.

He makes it through the conversation with Morannar fairly well, answering her questions (although "And why have you chosen my daughter?" does flummox him; luckily, she laughs at his helpless stammering and doesn't press for an answer) and only stumbling a bit over the formal request for her blessing.

She hesitates before answering, turns to her daughter and says, "My jewel, are you certain?"

"I've never been more sure of anything," Fíannar says, and takes Kíli's hand, and her mother swallows audibly and says, "Then my blessings and Mahal's blessings on your courtship, and may it bring you both great happiness."

"Thank you," Kíli says, his throat dry, and then, "It's late — I'd better go, they'll expect me to be up at dawn."

"Wait," Fíannar says suddenly, drops his hand and rushes out of the room; he looks at Morannar, puzzled, but she only shrugs. Then Fíannar's back, one hand tightly closed around something, visibly fighting back a grin. She strides over to stand before Kíli, holds out her hand, and announces, "My _torvith_ , in token of my acceptance."

It's a fired-clay pipe, short-stemmed, small enough to tuck into a pocket. Kíli can't help grinning as he takes it. "Of course," he says, "baked clay for a baker — it makes sense. Though I admit I was half expecting a very stale biscuit."

"Oh, you're _awful_ ," Fíannar says with a laugh, and then she throws her arms around him and says, "You'll take it with you, won't you? And once you're settled, wherever you're going, write to me — no, you won't be allowed, will you? Write to Ori, he's trustworthy, and I'll pester him every day until he tells me you've sent word."

"Of course," Kíli says, kisses her goodbye and bows a farewell to her mother, and as he walks back through the dark streets and climbs back up into his window he'd swear his feet don't touch the ground.

* * *

Kíli doesn't even try to sleep; between the elation of Fíannar's acceptance and the misery of being sent away from her, he knows it wouldn't be any use. Instead, he passes most of the night going through his things, packing up what he thinks he'll want or need while he's away. By the time the first sunlight peeks in through his window, he's filled a trunk with his heavier things — books, spare boots, and warm winter clothes, to be brought out once they're settled somewhere — and a light leather pack with the few things he'll actually need while traveling, and he's dressed for the journey, sitting on top of the trunk and idly twisting a four-stranded braid into his hair.

There's a quiet knock at his door; when he opens it, his mother is standing in the hall, two steaming mugs of tea in her hands, and she smiles at the sight of him and says, "I worried you wouldn't come home."

"But you brewed a cup for me all the same," he says with a grin, taking the mug from her left hand and beckoning her into the room, and she laughs and says, "Well, I wasn't _that_ worried."

Kíli sits back down on his trunk; Dís nudges him gently over and settles beside him, and for a while they don't talk, just sit quietly and drink their tea. Then Dís sighs and puts an arm around Kíli's shoulders, pulls him to lean against her, and says, "I'll miss you very much."

"I know, Mum," Kíli says, pillowing his head on her shoulder, and then there's a pounding at the door downstairs, she leaps up to go and answer it, and before Kíli knows it he's being swept out the door and onto a wagon, Dwalin following behind with his trunk. There's time for one last quick embrace and a shouted goodbye and then they're on their way; when Kíli twists in his seat to look back, he can see his mother standing in the door, looking after them, until they round the corner.

It occurs to Kíli later, when they stop for lunch, that Thorin didn't bother to put in an appearance, to see him off. He grouses aloud about it, and Dwalin raises an eyebrow and says, "And if he had shown his face, what would you have done?"

"Punched it, probably," Kíli admits.

"Thought as much," Dwalin says with a laugh, "and I expect that's why he didn't. He's pigheaded, your uncle, but he's got some sense. And he's vain of that handsome nose of his."

Kíli can't help a little snort at that — Thorin's nose _is_ suspiciously straight and unscarred, for a warrior of his repute — but it doesn't do much to soothe his irritation. "He still ought to have come," he grumbles.

Dwalin sighs and claps a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, he should have," he says, and his tone, unusually, is more gentle than gruff. "Better still, he should have let well enough alone and given your lass the chance to change his mind — I have no doubt she could. But things are as they are, and we can only make the best of them."

Kíli grunts and turns his attention back to his bread and cheese, still a bit sullen. After a moment, Dwalin clears his throat and says, "As far as making the best of it goes — there's an idea I had, when I saw you throw that axe yesterday. That wasn't a fluke, was it? You've a good eye, good aim."

"I win at darts a lot," Kíli offers; he's not certain that really counts, but then, he hasn't had much opportunity to test his aim outside of the tavern.

"I thought as much." Dwalin stands up and stretches, begins clearing away the remains of their lunch. "We'll be among strange folk, it's true, but perhaps they can be of use to us. If we can find you a teacher among the Men, I reckon you might make a bowman."

* * *

> Dear Fíannar,
> 
> We are finally settled, at least for a while. We're in Bree, which seems to be the biggest town anywhere around here, and that's where we're going to spend the winter. There's a smith among the Men here, and we thought he wouldn't like us staying, but we met him, and you won't believe it — he learned his craft from Dwalin, when he traveled this way twenty years ago! So he not only doesn't mind us being here, he invited us to stay with his family and work in his forge, and I'm to learn from him as well as from Dwalin.
> 
> We stopped in a lot of little towns on the way, and did a bit of work for people there — mostly farming tools and door-knockers and that. No one here seems to have any use for weapons. I think the most dangerous thing I've made since leaving home has been a set of pokers!
> 
> I miss you so much, Fí. I wish I was still at home, with you, or even better, I wish you could come along with me. I think you'd like it — it's strange, being the only dwarves around, but it's interesting, too, meeting Men and halflings and seeing how they live. I know you didn't want me to run away, but I can't help thinking how much fun it could have been, you and me taking off together and settling in one of these little towns.
> 
> I'm so glad to have your pipe, at least. Every time I take it out I think of you, and wonder what you're doing, and whether you're using my knife and thinking of me. I hope you are.
> 
> Write back to me if you can, won't you?
> 
> All my love,  
>  Kíli

He folds the letter up, and seals it, and then tucks it inside the letter to Ori he wrote earlier — which has much of the same news, plus a bit of excited chatter about the prospect of learning to shoot, plus a very stern admonishment that if Ori fails to deliver the letter to Fíannar or, worse yet, _opens_ it Kíli will find him and kill him — and folds an envelope around the whole mess. He's done a bit of asking around, and learned that the halflings' postmen take their work very seriously and will carry a letter to within a day's ride of Ered Luin; there's one of them in town at the moment, spending the night at the inn and leaving by the westward road in the morning, and Kíli's letter will be in his satchel when he goes.

It's nearly a month and a half before he gets a letter back. It's from Ori, short but full of news — apparently Balin's newest crop of students are "even more hopeless than you were," which Kíli finds simultaneously insulting and, if he's entirely honest with himself, difficult to believe — and ends with an offer to beat Kíli in a contest of marksmanship anytime, if he does happen to take up the bow. Kíli reads it through twice, combing the words for any mention of Fíannar, then sighs and picks up the envelope to toss it away.

There's a second letter in it, folded so small he nearly missed it, and he tears it open so eagerly it's a wonder he doesn't rip it entirely in two.

> Dear Kíli,
> 
> You're right, I hardly do believe it! What luck, that you'd run into an old apprentice of Dwalin's. I'm really glad to hear that you've settled for the winter, though — I'd been a bit worried, thinking of the two of you having to travel in the cold and the snow. Are you really living in a town with halflings? What are they like? When I was out south with the guard company, I was always hearing rumors that someone had seen wild halflings in the woods, but I never saw any, and honestly I don't think anyone else did either. I suppose they can't be as wild as all that, really, if they live in towns and buy door-knockers and that sort of thing.
> 
> I'm glad you wrote when you did, because I've been thinking about us courting and your uncle and all, and I think I've had an idea that might work. I'm the one who's got to prove myself, right? I mean, my mum already likes you and everything. So when you come back, I ought to court you, formal and proper, and really stick to the traditions and prove to your uncle I'm a fit match. He'll have to see sense then, won't he? I think it's a brilliant plan — now you just need to hurry and come back so we can try it.
> 
> I do miss you, Kíli, I really do. Ori and Gimli are still coming to train with me sometimes, but it's not the same — we're not as good without you, and it's not as much fun, either. And I miss going out walking with you, and teasing you about your pepper-and-cheese pastries, and stopping by the forge to watch you at work. I know you'll only be gone a few years, I know it's not as long as I was gone before, but it seems like a very long time right now and I can't wait until you're back home.
> 
> With love,  
>  Your Fí
> 
> P.S. If I'm the one courting you, I shall expect you to change your name. So get used to being called Kíannar.
> 
> P.P.S. That was meant to be a joke, but now I come to read back over it, it doesn't seem as obvious as I thought. Only teasing. You can keep your name as it is. "Kíannar" sounds silly, anyway.
> 
> P.P.P.S. Of course I'm using your knife, what a silly question! I had a wrist-sheath made for it, so it's always handy. You ought to see me showing it off — I tried to do courtship braids the night you left, because I wanted everyone to see, but you know how I am with hair. So instead I just make sure everyone can see the knife, and that they know what it is — that it's yours and so am I.

Kíli thinks on those last few sentences for a while — pictures Fíannar striding around town on patrol, his knife strapped at her wrist and his beads in her mustache and that proud little half-smile on her lips, shouting out _I belong to Kíli_ even without saying a word. Before long that becomes a vision of her standing before him, saying it aloud — _Yours, yours alone, yours I am and yours I shall be always_ — and _that_ ends with him locking the door and hurriedly attending to himself, alert the entire time for any sound on the stairs that might mean Dwalin is on his way back up to their shared room. But he finishes in peace, and hastily cleans up, and then flings himself down on his bed and re-reads the letter again.

This time the image that catches him is of Fíannar whispering _Mine_ , and he groans and buries his face in the pillows.

He really _must_ figure out a way to end this 'exile' nonsense early.

* * *

> Dear Mum,
> 
> I was surprised how quickly your letter got here after we'd settled in — did Dwalin tell you ahead of time where you'd be able to reach us? It's good to hear a bit of news from home. Auntie Gloin must be excited about the new quarry opening — you'll have to let me know how that turns out!
> 
> Things are going well here, too. I've learned some new tricks for decorative sculpting from Master Hayhurst, the smith here — the Men use a lot more plants and flowers and that sort of thing in their designs, so I've been learning all different shapes of leaves and petals. And I've been riding more than I used to at home, and getting much better at it. A few times I've even raced against Master Hayhurst's son, who has a pony of his own — I haven't beaten him yet, but I'm getting closer every time.
> 
> Of course I miss you too, but you must stop worrying...

("You might write to your uncle, as well," Dwalin suggests, when he notices that the halfling postmen have come to know Kíli by name; Kíli snorts and says, "What's to write? 'Dear Thorin, You've ruined my life and I hate you'? Hardly seems worth the ink," and then stomps off to their rooms and sulks for the rest of the night. Dwalin doesn't bring it up again.)

> Dear Fí,
> 
> First things first: DON'T WRITE BACK! By the time this letter gets to you, we'll have left Bree for the summer. We're going north this time, and from what I hear, it'll be rather different than the towns we visited last year — fewer halflings, for one thing, and more concern about wolves and stray goblins and the like. Maybe I'll actually get to make some blades again; that'll be a change...

They pass the summer traveling through the small villages north of Bree, stopping in each one for a few weeks or a month — long enough to demonstrate their skill and fill a few orders, but not so long as to wear out their welcome. It's dull work, for the most part, though Kíli is gratified that he does get to make a few swords and axe-blades; it's really much the same as making a fireplace poker, but somehow it's just more exciting when he can envision the final product being used to gut a goblin.

He makes an effort to enjoy himself, to think of the experience as a journey rather than an exile, but it's difficult — there's never much to do in the towns other than visit the tavern, and between the locals' coldness toward strangers, the too-tall tables and barstools, and the weak ale the Men seem to favor, even that isn't much fun. Instead, he takes to spending his evenings roaming or riding through the woods, learning the lay of the country and the signs of its animals and, frankly, moping.

It's late in the summer when he begins stumbling across new signs — not left by animals, this time, but unmistakably by a person. Whoever it is, they're not trying very hard to cover their tracks; three times in less than a week, Kíli finds cleared areas of ground where they've slept, and the half-buried remnants of campfires, and once even a short length of rope, frayed at one end, still looped around the trunk of a tree.

By the next day, when he finds the fourth campsite, he's too curious to ignore it. He dismounts and ties up the pony, then stoops, checking the ashes of the campfire — still slightly warm — and searching the ground for a hint of the mysterious traveler's direction. There's not much to find, but one trampled wildflower points him eastward, and a few yards further on, he finds boot-prints in a muddy patch that make him confident he's going the right way.

It's a bit of a trek — the traveler, whoever they are, has presumably had all day to walk this distance, and Kíli has only a few hours before Dwalin will be expecting him back at the wagon. After a bit he goes back and gets the pony, and that helps, though he still has to stop and dismount several times to make sure he's on the right trail.

It's at one of these times, as he's kneeling over a bent twig and trying to decide whether it means that someone passed this way or simply that twigs are bendy, that a voice says from behind him, "Actually, I turned north here," and Kíli about jumps out of his skin.

Dwalin's taught him well; he's on his feet and facing the stranger in an instant, one hand dropping to the knife he wears in his belt. The stranger, though, doesn't move from where he's leaning against a tree, only laughs and says, "But you've been looking for me for hours — didn't you expect to find me?"

"I didn't expect _you_ to find _me_ ," Kíli says, as levelly as he can manage, and looks the stranger up and down. He's tall, even for a Man, and dressed for travel in leather and homespun cloth, all in shades of brown; even his boots are soft leather, which goes some way toward explaining how he managed to sneak up behind Kíli. He doesn't look particularly threatening, though, and after a moment Kíli takes his hand off the hilt of his knife, forces himself to relax. "Who are you, then?"

The stranger raises an eyebrow. "I had always heard," he says, "that the dwarves were known for keeping to themselves, and out of the business of others. Clearly, I was mistaken."

"Perhaps I'm just not a very good dwarf," Kíli says with a shrug; then he bows, though not too deeply, and adds, "Kíli, son of Vigg, at your service. And now you _have_ to tell me your name. It's only polite."

Then he notices the bow slung over the stranger's back, and thinks of Dwalin's promise to try to find him a teacher, and the disappointing lack of skilled bowmen in Bree, and forgets all about the stranger's name in favor of blurting, "Do you shoot? Could you teach me?"

The Man barks a startled laugh. "Teach you? I've only known you half a minute."

"Just show me one thing, then," Kíli bargains. "How to hold a bow properly, or something."

"It'll be far too big for you," the stranger cautions, but he's already lifting the bow off his shoulder, stepping forward to set it in Kíli's hands. "No, straight out, like this — and hook your fingers here — there, see, it's nearly touching the ground. I can't imagine you could draw it."

Kíli snorts at that — he may be smaller than a Man, but he's pretty certain he's stronger — and pulls back on the bowstring. It isn't as easy as he'd expected, and he doesn't quite manage to draw it in one smooth motion, as he'd hoped, but he draws it all the same, and grins smugly up at the stranger.

An hour later, the sun is setting, the trees at the far end of the clearing are studded with arrows, and Kíli, having extracted his new friend's name — Fastryn — and a promise of another lesson in a few days, mounts up and rides back to town in far better spirits than when he left.

He'd never have expected it, but he's actually _disappointed_ when, the next month, it snows for the first time and Dwalin declares that it's time they got back to Bree.

* * *

> Dear Master Balin,
> 
> Thank you for the book you sent. I've read about half of it so far, and I'm finding it very interesting. (It certainly is heavy, though — I hope you gave the postman a bit extra for his trouble!) This was written about the Men near the Iron Hills, wasn't it? They don't sound very like the Men here in Bree — things are much less formal and rule-bound here, and they don't seem to care nearly as much about their craftsmanship. I wonder whether they've always been so different, or if it's simply that things have changed since the book was written.
> 
> Do you know of any books about halflings, or hobbits as they call themselves? There are quite a lot of them here in town, and they're a very curious people — not at all like dwarves, and not very much like Men, either...

> Dear Fí,
> 
> Remember my last letter, about the archer I met over the summer? Well guess what — he's come to Bree for the winter, too! I was so worried I wouldn't get to shoot all winter, and I'd forget everything he'd taught me, but now it looks like I'll get to keep up my lessons after all!
> 
> How are things at work? Are you still looking for a new baker? From your letters, it sounds like you've been so busy with the guards — at this rate, your mum will have to hire someone to replace you, too! I suppose that's what you get for being good at your work, though...

> Dear Ori,
> 
> I can hit the bull's-eye two out of three times now. Still up for that contest, when I get home? Loser buys the winner's drinks for a week.

The second summer, they go west, making a wide circuit around the halfling villages. Kíli complains about it a bit — he misses his archery lessons, and the few friends he's made in Bree, and most of all he misses Fíannar's letters — but business is good, at least, and the hobbits are more welcoming to strangers than the Men.

 _Very_ welcoming, really. They've hardly even arrived in the village of Waymeet, and in fact are still unpacking the wagon and setting up in the inn-yard, when a party of a half-dozen chattering hobbit lasses emerge from the inn, notice them, and, well, _descend_.

"Smiths!" one of them says brightly. "That's good news — I know my dad has been needing a new pitchfork. Will you be staying long?"

"Where have you come from?" another asks. "Frogmorton? Or further east?"

"Can you mend a tea-kettle with a hole in it, or should I just have you make a new one?"

"Er," Kíli says, and glances around in hopes of rescue. Dwalin, though, has retreated to the other side of the wagon and is making himself pointedly busy there; even the pony has deserted him, wandering away toward a patch of dense clover. "Well. We've just come from, oh, I don't know the country that well — I think it was called Bywater? And we'll be here a week or two, at least, and maybe more if there's a lot of work to be had. And I suppose I _could_ patch a tea-kettle, but if it's worn enough to have one hole, there'll be other weak spots as well and you'd probably be better off just replacing it."

"Two weeks!" the third girl, the one with the tea-kettle, says, ignoring his answer to her actual question. "Why, you'll be here for Midsummer, then! Poppy, you'll bring them, won't you?"

"I wouldn't be much of a hostess if I didn't," says a fourth girl, laughing, and then bobs a half-curtsy to Kíli and adds, "I haven't introduced myself, have I? Poppy Noakes, at your service, sir — my parents own the inn. You will come along to the Midsummer party, won't you? Both of you?"

Which is how, five days later, Kíli ends up trapped beside a punch-bowl, being introduced to a seemingly endless line of hobbits and half-wishing he were back among the unfriendly Men.

He's just considering whether he can duck out without being missed when another hobbit steps up in front of him, looks him up and down, and says, "You're the smith, then? The apprentice?"

"Yes," Kíli says, and draws himself up to bow and introduce himself properly; before he can, though, the hobbit says, "Good," pulls a small package out of his coat, and hands it over.

Kíli stares at it, baffled. "What's this?"

"Postmen don't pry, sir," the hobbit says cheerfully. "All I know is, it's for a dwarf, to be found somewhere in the Shire, exact location unknown — an apprentice smith, name of Kíli. That is you, isn't it?"

"It is," Kíli says, and, "Thank you"; the out-of-uniform postman nods and disappears into the crowd, and Kíli retreats into a corner, turns his attention to the envelope in his hands. It's addressed to him, right enough, and in Fíannar's writing, and he tears it open, not sure whether to be excited or concerned.

The layers of paper eventually yield up a small, heavy packet, which turns out to contain a round silver pendant, etched with angular dwarven knotwork and strung on a gleaming chain. Kíli holds it up in the light for a moment, admiring it, and then turns to the note that was wrapped around it.

> Kíli— I hope this gets to you in time for your birthday. I know it's silly to try and send you anything while you're traveling, but forty-five is an important year and I thought you ought to have something special.  
>  Your Fí  
>  P.S. Don't open it in front of Dwalin.

"Open it?" he says aloud to himself, slightly puzzled, and looks at the pendant edge-on — and, yes, there's a clasp there, and when he runs a finger over the other side he finds a tiny hinge.

He opens it, and looks, and _gapes_ , astonished. The tiny portrait inside is unmistakably Fíannar, shown just from the shoulders up, her grey eyes looking out at the viewer in a kind of challenge and her lips curved up in a half-smile, but he's never seen her quite like this before — her hair swept back off her shoulders, all done up in proper courtship braids; a jeweled choker nestled in the hollow of her throat; and below that, bare shoulders and collarbones, her skin smooth and fair and perfect.

Kíli stares at the painting for a long moment; then he shakes his head to clear it, and moves to close the locket, and only then notices the frame around the edge of the portrait — a narrow, perfect braid of golden hair, worked in a six-stranded pattern that he knows at once as "Faithful Though Asunder".

That does explain the warning against opening the locket in front of Dwalin — a lock of hair is a scandalously intimate gift for a couple who aren't even betrothed. (Kíli doubts Dwalin would really object, but he might feel obligated to tell Thorin about it, and that would _certainly_ be a disaster.) He doesn't rush to hide it, though, only grins down at the portrait and the braid, imagining how many tries it must have taken for Fíannar, hopelessly clumsy with hair, to make a braid so smooth and even — and how whole-heartedly she must have meant the gift, to keep working at it all that time.

 _I really must be the luckiest dwarf alive,_ he thinks, clasps the chain around his neck, and turns back to the party with a smile on his face.

* * *

> Dear Gimli,
> 
> Your torvith, really? Congratulations! I can't believe it! And I really can't believe Auntie approved of it on the first try. That's not fair at all — it took me four tries to make mine, and if you believe Ori it took him about four thousand.
> 
> How big is it, anyway? I couldn't really tell from the drawing in your letter. And is it meant to be worn as a cloak-pin, or as a pendant? Either way, I really like the snake design, and I bet whoever you give it to will, too...

> Dear Fí,
> 
> Or I suppose I ought to say, Dear Border Captain Fíannar,
> 
> What wonderful news! I'm so glad for you — I know how you like taking those outlying patrols, and I'm certain you'll do well commanding them.
> 
> You will be careful, though, won't you? And don't be angry with me for worrying. I know, I know, you've been in the guard for ten years and I'm a green idiot and you hardly need me looking after you. But I love you, and I will worry whether you like it or not, so you may as well promise to be careful and then at least I won't keep telling you that I'm worrying.
> 
> Have I told you that Dwalin has an admirer here? A farmer's daughter — I suppose last winter she hadn't really noticed him, but lately she's always hanging around the forge, making eyes at him. I think it's the funniest thing I've ever seen, but for some reason Dwalin doesn't seem to see the humor in it...

It's a beautiful morning, late in spring, and Kíli whistles as he walks back to the forge, his bow swinging loosely in one hand; he's been up since dawn, practicing at the archery butts Fastryn helped him set up just outside of town.

He stops short at the crossroads just before Master Hayhurst's house, though, and groans — there's their wagon, pulled out onto the road, and a stack of crates and trunks in the yard, and as he watches, Dwalin steps out the door, another crate in his arms.

"Do we really have to go already?" Kíli asks, crossing the rest of the way into the yard and leaning against a fencepost. "It's only just May."

Dwalin rolls his eyes and heaves the crate onto the stack with a grunt. "Go upstairs and get your things packed, will you?"

"Can't we stay just a few more weeks?" He's already moving, though, obediently starting into the house.

From behind him, Dwalin snorts and says, "You won't say that when you hear where we're going."

Kíli stops in his tracks, halfway up the stairs, and twists around to stare at Dwalin. "What do you mean?" he demands, almost unwilling to believe it. "Where are we going? Home?"

Dwalin shrugs, and says, "I reckon we've put up with your uncle's nonsense long enough," and that seems to settle it.


End file.
